


After Action Is More Action

by hetrez



Series: The Door Is Open Wide [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Developing Relationship, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, M/M, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetrez/pseuds/hetrez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Yeah, but we're a thing now, so I wanna impress you," Clint says.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Phil fights with his best friend, takes on a new project, tries to negotiate an open relationship, reconnects with his team, and spends time with the man he is falling in love with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Action Is More Action

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "The Coulson Uncertainty Principle". 
> 
> Beta by the amazing Clumsygyrl and Laura Kaye. Clumsygyrl, Laura Kaye, Eleanor Lavish, Schuyler and Sternel all cheered me on and suggested course corrections when my story got too out of hand. You ladies are the best.
> 
> This story is polyamory-positive. There is no cheating, but there are discussions of open relationships.
> 
> This story continues as an AU from Hawkeye #11 and Marvel's Agents of SHIELD episode 12, although there are no real spoilers for either of those.

Clint opens the door to his apartment building with the same grand ringmaster bow he used to wave Phil in -- God, only two days ago.

"You know I've already seen your building," Phil points out. It isn't the _most_ impressive apartment building in Bed-Stuy, but it has a safe, homey feeling. And it's where Clint lives. He likes it perhaps slightly beyond its merits, because of that last detail.

"Yeah, but we're a thing now, so I wanna impress you," Clint says.

Phil raises an eyebrow. "Oh, a _thing_ ," he says.

Clint smiles and ducks his head. It's too adorable to be tolerated. Phil shuts the building door and pushes Clint back against it, and leans into his space. Clint is loose and pliant, welcoming. It makes Phil feel giddy.

There's the sound of a clearing throat behind them, and Phil stiffens and steps away. Behind him, a woman stands at the top of the foyer stairs, holding the hands of two young children. She looks tense and sad.

Clint steps past him. "Hey, Simone. Hey, little Simones. How've you been?"

The kids grin at him and wave, but the woman shakes her head. "Clint," she says.

Clint sags. "Oh," he says.

Phil has no idea what's going on, but it looks painful and unpleasant. He's not sure if Clint wants to be outed to his neighbors, so he doesn't grab Clint's hand the way he'd like to. He does step forward to stand at Clint's right shoulder, almost touching him. The woman flicks a glance at Phil, and he tries to look as pleasant and harmless as possible. She relaxes slightly.

"It's just," she says. "I know you're a good guy, and I know you try to protect us."

"No, no," Clint says. "I get it."

"What you did with the tracksuits -- I'm so grateful. Nobody's ever done that for me. Nobody takes care of their tenants like you do, not in New York. You're a good man."

"Simone," Clint says, voice plaintive. "No, it's okay."

"But with Grills, and then the _gunshots_ the other day? And then you disappeared, and I didn't know if they were targeting the building, or who else was going to --" she stops, and seems to gather herself. "I have kids, Clint, and being around you is dangerous."

"I know," Clint says. "I'm sorry."

The woman takes a breath. "I'm giving my thirty days notice on my apartment."

"Simone, you can take as long as you need, or as short as you need, you don't have to --"

"Thirty days," she says. Her face softens. "You're my friend, and you've done right by us. I'm going to do this right."

Clint says, "I'll get, what was your security deposit? It can't have been much, I'll, you can have extra. Do you want some help moving? I can," he stops when Simone holds an arm up. She's still holding her child's hand, so it looks like they're waving together.

"I'm going to do this right," she says again. Clint nods. "Thirty days. Thank you for everything." She pulls her children away, clucking at them when they hang back to stare at Clint. The sound of their steps fades, and then it's just Clint and Phil standing in the sad, dim foyer.

Clint scrubs a hand through his hand, and leans back into Phil. "Life could stop sucking any time now," he says.

Phil kisses the side of his neck. "Come upstairs," he says. He holds Clint's hand all the way up to the fourth floor.

Clint's apartment is exactly the way they left it: broken glass and blood still on the floor, a barstool tipped over on its side next to the couch, a pile of antiseptic and medical tape in the middle of a cleared-out space in the living room. Clint stops when they get inside, and looks at everything. "We could go back to Tony's," he says. "There might still be some tacos."

Phil turns Clint around so they're facing each other. He cups his hands around Clint's jaw and looks at his beautiful, bruised face. The corner of Clint's mouth tilts up. Phil says, "I like it here."

Clint huffs a laugh, and Phil kisses him. It's soft and sweet, and Phil adds it to the catalogue of Clint Barton kisses he has. It's a new catalogue, but he's very fond of it.

"Hey," Clint leans back and smiles at him. "You wanna come see upstairs?"

Yes, Phil does want.

Clint leads him across the room and up the stairs, stopping every few moments to kiss the side of Phil's face, his neck, his mouth. When they get to the top of the stairs, though, Clint hunches like a turtle.

"Actually," he says, "It's kind of a mess. And I haven't changed my sheets in a really long time, that's pretty gross, right?"

"Normally, yes," Phil says, "I prefer clean sheets."

Clint starts to move, as if he's going to clean the whole upstairs loft and change the sheets right there. Phil says, in his calmest agent voice, "But right now I want your hands on me."

Clint turns back to him, expression hungry. "That works, too," he says.

He backs Phil into the bedroom and up to the messy, unmade bed. Then he turns them around and falls back on the bed himself. He tugs Phil's wrist until Phil leans down over him, one knee on the bed between his legs. "Hi," Clint says, and starts unbuttoning Phil's shirt. He hooks an ankle behind Phil's knee.

"Hello," Phil says. The position is awkward for him, halfway between standing and crouching, but the view is fantastic. He watches for a minute, while Clint fiddles with the tiny buttons on his suit shirt. Clint has the same intense look of concentration that he did the other day while digging glass out of Phil's foot, and his hands express the same gentle care.

When all the buttons are undone, Phil shrugs off his shirt and his jacket, and lets Clint skin him out of his undershirt. Clint pauses, seeing Phil's scar.

"That musta hurt," he says, and then winces. "I mean --"

"It did," Phil says. It had, until the procedure that brought him back from death, been the most painful thing he had ever experienced. He doesn't tell Clint that. He might later.

Clint looks at it for a minute, ghosting his fingers over the length of twisted skin, and then he leans up to kiss Phil. Phil pushes him down onto the bed, crowding over him, kissing and kissing. He shoves his hand under the small of Clint's back and lifts him a little, scooching him a couple of inches up the bed. Clint breaks the kiss to gasp against the side of Phil's face. "Oh my _God_ ," he says.

Well. That's interesting.

Phil tries it again, lifting Clint's torso and shoving him backwards. He can't get very far, given physics, but Clint moans and clutches at Phil's shoulders. Very interesting.

"You like that?" he asks. "You want me to throw you around?" He tries not to let it show in his voice, how much Clint is getting to him.

"God, fuck," Clint says, sounding shaky.

Phil leans back out of Clint's reach and says, "Barton, answer me," in his agent voice.

Clint shudders and whines. His eyes are closed, his head turned to the side. "Yes, sir," he says. Phil feels a bolt of heat in his lower belly. "I want, I want."

"What do you want?" Phil asks.

Clint puts a hand over his face. He laughs, and then gasps. "Phil, I can't, I don't actually --"

Phil leans down and says into Clint's ear, "Because I could have some fairly elaborate plans." He unbuttons and unzips Clint's fly, and pulls his pants and boxers down. He runs one hand across Clint's belly, and then down to rest over Clint's dick.

"Fuck," Clint says. He arches into Phil's hand, head thrown back, beautiful. Phil wants to do this every minute of every day.

He says, "If you like to be tied up . . ." and wraps his hand around Clint's dick and starts stroking.

"M-maybe," Clint says. "Sir."

Phil feels like he'll go crazy with how good this is. He grips tighter, strokes faster, and Clint whines again. He says, "There are a lot of things I could think to do to you, after I lifted you off the ground."

Clint is breathing hard, his face red, and he looks absolutely gone.

Phil says into his ear, "And whatever I wanted to do to you, you'd let me."

Clint moans, arches up and comes. It's one of the hottest things Phil's ever seen. He has a moment of childish triumph, of _I did that!_ and then he just wants to cover Clint like a blanket and kiss him forever.

"Oh my God," Clint says, and sags back onto the bed. "That is not what I was expecting."

"Yes, well," Phil says hoarsely. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands. And his back is starting to hurt. And he is so turned on he can't see straight.

"Commere," Clint says, and makes grabby hands at him. Phil lets himself be tilted down onto the bed, and the Clint flops half onto him and wrestles with the fly of his pants. "Ugh, clothes," he says.

"I've got it," Phil says, unzipping his pants and shoving them down.

"Shouldn't have to. Gimme a minute. You broke me."

Clint wriggles around and mutters to himself, and then suddenly sprawls on top of Phil, completely naked, and God, all that _skin_. Nobody has touched Phil like this since before he died. He makes an embarrassing noise and curls up, wrapping his arms and legs around Clint and holding on tight.

"Can't," Clint grunts, "reach when you get all. Words are hard."

"In a minute," Phil says. He wants to come, badly, but he wants the heat and feel of Clint's body against his skin. Phil wants the press of Clint's chest against his, and the beat of Clint's pulse against his mouth.

"Wait, wait, wait," Clint says, and Phil grips tighter.

"No," he says.

"No, wait, I'm a genius," Clint says, and then he cants his hips so Phil can rub against his belly and it's fucking perfect. Phil moans and shudders, and Clint says, "Yeah, okay."

Phil comes with Clint's body covering his, Clint touching him all over. It is spectacular.

Afterwards, he and Clint burrow under the messy pile of blankets. It's early yet, only just getting dark, but Phil feels like he could sleep for years and Clint doesn't look any better. Clint shoves his nose into Phil's neck and sighs, melting into Phil's side. Phil runs a hand through his hair.

He's not completely asleep, though. Not yet. He asks, "How are your feet, with the stitches?"

Clint laughs. "You're asking me that now?"

"Health is important," Phil says. He runs his hand down Clint's back, feeling the bumps of his spine.

"They're fine, I could run a marathon." Phil doubts that, but he understands the sentiment. "You?"

Phil touches his bandaged toes together. "I'm all right. I want to get some walking in tomorrow, see how it feels."

They're silent for a few minutes, breathing in time with each other. Then Phil says, "I'm glad you met my team."

"Hmm?" Clint says. He sounds half asleep.

"I think you'll like them. We've only been working together for six months, but they're incredible. You saw them. They kept me sane, I think."

Clint says, "Hmm," again and rubs his knuckles against Phil's chest. He says, "I own this building."

Phil raises his eyebrows, and tilts his head to look at Clint. He can't see more than the tip of Clint's nose and the slope of Clint's forehead, so he slumps back. "For how long?"

"Less than a year. That mafia problem I had -- they were hassling the tenants. Threatening them, hiking up the rent. So I, uh. Bought the building."

"Of course," Phil says.

Clint tries to duck his head and ends up pushing his nose further into Phil's shoulder. Phil shushes him and strokes his hair.

"I think it's admirable," Phil says. He adds this new piece of information to the picture he's building of Clint.

"Yeah?" Clint asks.

"It's very you," Phil says.

"Huh," Clint says. He kisses Phil's shoulder and snuggles somehow closer, and after a minute he starts snoring quietly. Phil follows him into sleep a minute later.

\-----

Phil wakes the next morning to the sound of pounding on the front door. He bolts upright, heart racing.

Next to him, Clint flails. "Aw, no," he says.

In the daylight, with adrenaline racing through him, Phil can admit that the bedroom is a dreadful mess. He itches to tidy up the clothes on the floor and the dirty coffee cups. Instead, he leans over Clint and kisses the back of his neck. "You should get that," he says.

"Hate mornings," Clint says.

"Mmm," Phil says. He would agree. Waking up has gotten less pleasant as he's gotten older, especially after he came back to life and the nightmares started. Except he is finding everything Clint does fascinating and lovely, and it makes even a rude wake-up like this one easier to deal with. "Up."

Clint lurches out of bed, eyes mostly shut, and stumbles around looking for clothes. He ends up yanking on an aging pair of sweats and Phil's wrinkled button-down, which he does not button. Phil tries not to swallow his tongue.

Clint walks over to the bed, eyes still closed, and kisses Phil once before slumping out the door and down the stairs. Phil hears him walk over to the door, and hears it open, and then a woman's voice says, "Clint, oh my God, are you all right?"

There's a pause, and then Clint says, "Heeeeey, Jessica." He sounds much more awake.

"I got to Headquarters this morning and everybody was talking about the mission in Zagreb. I can't believe it. I mean, I knew you were in trouble, but this!"

"Yeah, uh, well." There's the sound of rustling cloth, and then Clint says, "Oh, wow, hey, a hug."

Phil does not creep closer to the doorway so he can hear their conversation better. But he very much wants to.

"I got your letter," the woman -- Jessica -- says.

There's another pause, and then, "Oh," Clint says, drawing the words out. "The _letter_."

"The things you said, I just. And then when I heard about the Black Hand, and everything that's been happening. I thought, maybe I wasn't really fair. Before."

"No," Clint says, sounding awkward and uncomfortable. "You were right. I am a bad person."

"You know I didn't mean that. I, well. Clint, I think dating again would be a bad idea."

Phil huffs a breath out, feeling like he just walked into a wall.

"No, no, of course." Clint gives a little laugh, sounding frantic. "Noooo dating, that's just fine." How has this man ever done undercover work?

"But you're still important to me," she says. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does, hearing Clint talk with his ex. Phil may be less than rational about him.

"Jess," Clint sounds pained.

"I thought, though, maybe we could get breakfast?"

"I, uh, I don't know, Jess. I'm really tired." _How_ has this man done undercover work?

"Clint?" she asks. Suspicion is starting to creep into her voice.

"May-maybe tomorrow morning. That sounds nice, huh?"

"You have someone else here right now, don't you?" she asks, voice hard. "I cannot believe you."

"Now, come on."

"You know, I should have realized, with us? You never brought me back here, not once."

"Jess --"

"Is she a good fuck?"

Phil closes his eyes.

"Hey," Clint says. "Don't do that."

"You know what? I'm going to go." There's the sound of rustling cloth and footsteps. "I'm glad you're alive. Call me when you're less of a jackass." The door slams shut.

Phil sits on the bed for what feels like a long time, listening to the silence of the apartment. Then he starts gathering up his clothes. He needs to go in to see Director Fury, after all.

Clint comes up the stairs while Phil is tucking his undershirt into his trousers. Phil asks, "Can I have my shirt back?" He wants it to sound playful, but it comes out toneless.

Clint stops in the doorway. "I guess you heard that," he says.

"When did you two break up?" Phil asks. He bites his tongue. That is not what he wanted to say at all.

Clint takes Phil's shirt off and reaches out with it, not coming into the room. He says, "Five days ago."

Phil pauses with his arm outstretched. That's slightly worse than he expected. He makes himself take the shirt, and he shrugs it on and begins buttoning. "And what happened five days ago?" he asks, head tucked into his chest.

Clint hesitates. "I didn't think we were serious so I fucked around."

Phil drops his hands off the buttons, and turns fully to face Clint.

Clint doesn't meet his eyes. "So I guess I'll see you around then, huh?"

Phil needs time, just a few minutes by himself. This is not a side of Clint that he's seen before. But then, until three days ago, he didn't know Clint very much at all. Last night it felt beautiful, to have this grand new thing, but now it's -- he doesn't know. Phil has to figure out just what exactly he's gotten himself into. "Yes," he says. "We can talk later."

Clint sags in the doorway. "Okay, well, last night was -- anyway, thanks for everything."

Wait a minute. "I'm coming back," Phil says, frowning. "You've got me."

"Sure," Clint says, but it's obvious he doesn't believe Phil.

Well, best to clear that one up early. Phil walks over to him, giving him enough time to back away. Clint looks like he's bracing himself for a slap, and his eyes go wide and shocked when Phil puts a hand to his face and kisses him.

"I'd like to see you again tonight," Phil says. "Can I do that?"

Clint stares at him. "Yeah, uh, tonight. Tonight would be great." He looks confused but less miserable.

Phil finishes buttoning his shirt, and reaches for his tie. He says, "I have a meeting with the Director, but I'll call you before three o'clock. Please pick up when I call."

Clint nods, and kisses him. "If I can, I will," he says.

There's no good way to end a conversation like this one, he has learned through much trial and error. So Phil doesn't try. Instead, he grabs his jacket and walks past Clint, who is still hovering in the doorway, then down the stairs and out of the apartment.

\-----

Phil's debrief with Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill is excruciating.

They have him in a small conference room on the fourth floor, with a window overlooking 42nd and 7th. Phil is very aware of his two-day-old suit and his lack of a shower, his position of relative weakness. He has been on the other side of these briefings many times. Fury will try to rattle him, and see what shakes loose. Hill will use her perception like a scalpel. It's painful for Phil to be the man on the other side of the table, but he understands why. And -- he's still angry, truth be told. He'd like a chance to rattle Fury back.

He lifts his chin and watches them settle into their seats across from him. _Come at me_ , he thinks.

Fury starts with, "What made you decide that recruiting a mercenary known as 'Deadpool' was a good idea?"

Phil hesitates. It's not what he was expecting, and he chooses his words with care. "It's a tactic that SHIELD has used many times in the past," he says. "You yourself have encouraged me in at least seven separate cases to offer employment to free agents who were directly targeting SHIELD."

"Yes," Fury says. " _I_ encouraged you."

"I saw an opportunity and I took it," Phil says.

"Like you took the opportunity to use SHIELD and Avengers resources in order to carry out a personal vendetta on behalf of another agent."

Phil says, "Director, you gave me those resources," and then curses himself. Not yet, not yet, wait for it.

Fury says, "I did, it's true. I trusted your professionalism." Phil's mouth drops open. "And I trusted that, after nearly twenty years in this organization, you would put the interests of SHIELD before your own."

"I _was_ putting the interests in SHIELD first," Phil says. "Barton is a highly valued asset who was entangled with a large, dangerous organization. Going after the Black Hand is exactly the kind of project I am supposed to take on. And frankly, I'm appalled the situation was allowed to progress as far as it did." Well, there goes patience. Phil doesn't care. "You had to know this was happening."

"Excuse me?" Fury asks. "Barton is a grown-ass man, and he can solve his own damn problems."

"Leaving aside the fact that the Black Hand was not a _problem_ , but was actually an international crime syndicate," Phil says. "That's not the kind of organization I want to work for." He can see the hit land, and he should back off but he doesn't. "We don't leave assets hanging. We take care of our agents, especially when they're in trouble. Two master assassins? An arm of the Russian mafia? What the hell kind of ship are you running?"

"Do not pull that shit with me," Fury points at him. "I taught you that shit."

"And you taught me to treat my people better than you've been treating us."

Fury asks, "Us, Coulson?"

Phil freezes.

"Gentlemen," Hill says, and Phil curses himself. He knows better, he knows he should be playing this differently.

"Yes, Agent Hill," he says, smoothing down his tie. "Apologies."

"All right," she says. "Let's go back to the beginning. You were in Agent Barton's apartment."

It really doesn't get better from there.

The meeting goes on for what feels like hours, until finally Hill and Fury stop and look at each other. Hill frowns, and Fury shakes his head slightly. Hill raises her eyebrows and leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. Fury snorts. "Agent Hill," he says. "You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir," she says. She gathers up her paperwork, nods once to Phil, and leaves.

Phil resettles in his chair. He wants a bucket of coffee and three hours of quiet, but he'll take this pause before he and his best friend go back to fighting. He counts his breaths in and out, and waits to see what will come next.

At breath twenty six, Fury says, "You were right."

Phil jerks his head up. "Excuse me, Director?"

Fury runs a hand over his good eye. "You did the right thing in the right way. The way you merged the Avengers with your specialized team was exemplary. You defanged an international criminal syndicate in one night, with no loss of life on either side. I'm always proud to have you on my team, Coulson, but this felt really good."

Phil doesn't want Fury's admiration right now. He doesn't want to relax with his best friend right now. "What about my 'excessive use of force and SHIELD resources'?" he asks.

Fury looks at him, and then away. "Fuck it," he says.

Phil shakes his head. "Then why all this?"

"Because we don't answer only to ourselves, you know that. The world is changing, but so is this organization."

Phil narrows his eyes. "Pierce? The World Security Council? I thought you were managing them."

Fury sighs and says, "I used up a lot of credit, bringing you back."

Phil throws his hands up. "I didn't ask you to bring me back!"

"No," Fury says, sounding tired. "You didn't. And you don't know what it was like after you died."

"Do not do that," Phil says. "Do not make this about -- just don't."

Fury stops talking, and looks out the window. Phil wanted this conversation, he did, but he finds he is not ready at all. Because he can't get up and run away, he says, "The members of the Black Hand are all hobbled, but we should increase surveillance on them."

"It's happening," Fury says. Phil lets out a breath. It feels good to plan with Fury instead of against him. It feels good to be working with Fury, just for a moment.

"There will be other organizations who want to ingratiate themselves," Phil says, "based on our show of power. And if Belkin and the others have allies, they will try to retaliate." It's easier think about this now that he's started.

"I know," Fury says.

"My op was a deviation from standard procedure," Phil admits. "It had positive results, but do we want to run something like that again? Or do we want to put measures in place so that nobody at SHIELD can run an op like that again? Either way, we'll need to adjust our SOP."

"I know, Coulson," Fury says. He looks at Phil. "I'm working on it."

"We still need to deal with the Russians," Phil points out.

"Yeah, I got a call the other night. Thanks for that, by the way."

Phil almost cracks a smile. He hesitates, and then says, "You'll need help." He has said that so many times. It's just as easy as it was the first time.

Fury looks surprised. "I will," he says.

Phil sits and breathes, thinking. He remembers his and Fury's first meeting, their first mission. He remembers beginning to work for SHIELD, and feeling exhilarated at this new world he had a hand in building. He thinks about Nick Fury's friendship, and finds he can't let it go just yet. He says, "You have it," and something inside him relaxes. 

The look on Fury's face makes his throat go tight, but then Fury locks it all down and nods. He says, "Tomorrow, then. Come to my office at eleven hundred and we'll get started. Dismissed."

Phil gets up to leave, feeling exhausted but much lighter.

\-----

Once he's outside the briefing room, he leans against the wall and puts a hand over his heart. There are cameras, he knows, and Fury will see, but he just. He needs a moment.

He takes a few breaths and then stands up straight again and scrubs his hands over his face. Next on the list: call Clint, meet with his team, prep for tomorrow. He fishes his new SHIELD issue cell phone out of his pocket, and frowns when he sees the new text message icon. He just got the phone this morning. Who even has his number? 

The message says, "Hey, this is Kate. Want to grab lunch? I'm paying."

Phil smiles. Of course.

"Yes, I'd like that," he texts back. He is given an address in Restaurant Row and a half hour to get there.

The restaurant, when he arrives, is decked out like an early 20th century parlor. Phil runs his fingers along the tapestry backing of one of the waiting chairs, and then snatches his hand back when the host catches him. The clientele look to be almost exclusively society matrons and Broadway producers, with a small, incongruous group of twenty-something hipsters huddled in one corner. Phil isn't sure whether Kate is trying to intimidate him or she just has eccentric tastes, but either way he hopes to get good pasta out of the deal.

The smiling host leads him through parquet-floored hallways and past bookshelves full of wine to a small private room with a twenty-seater table. It's empty except for Kate and a large yellow dog.

"Phil," Kate says, getting up from the table. The dog lifts its head off its folded paws and then puts it back down with a whuff of air. Phil can see that it has several dents in its tail, and is missing an eye.

"Hello, Kate," he says, and crouches down to pet the dog. It licks his hand and thumps its busted tail, and Phil is in love. "Hello, there," he tells the dog.

"That's Lucky," Kate says. "Clint found him last year."

They own a dog together, that she brought to show to Phil. Well. At least now Phil knows what kind of lunch it's going to be. He sits back on his heel and looks up at her. He can handle an intimidation speech, but he really doesn't want one from the woman who is arguably Clint's best friend.

Kate is watching him with the same blank look all SHIELD agents develop after their first few weeks. Phil gets a painful clench in his chest, thinking about who must have taught it to her. She says, "You're not allergic to dogs, are you?"

Phil frowns. "No, I'm not."

"Good, you can take him over to Clint's tonight," Kate says, and hands Phil a purple leash.

Not an intimidation speech, then. Phil is not used to misreading people this consistently. He is, however, used to shifting the conversation to suit his needs. He asks, "Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?"

Kate tilts her head -- another thing that reminds him of Clint -- and says, "Yeah, okay, let's get it out of the way first. Come sit down. Their pappardelle is really good. You want some wine?"

Kate settles the both of them at the far end of the table from the door, close to a set of tall windows overlooking a quiet courtyard. She taps her hands against the tabletop for a minute, watching Phil, and then says, "Clint thinks you're going to break up with him."

Phil raises his eyebrows. "He told you that?"

She waves a hand. "Yeah, we talk. Normally I wouldn't care, except he's had a crazy week and he's my friend, and also the last person he dated broke into my apartment when she got pissed at him. So I thought, I don't know."

Phil can feel his eyebrows climbing up higher. Where to start? He says, "You seem like the kind of friend who would care."

She opens her mouth, and then shuts it as a waiter comes into the room to take their orders. After the man leaves, she says, "I -- yeah, I care. But it's like caring about a telenovela. There's only so invested I can get before it starts to drive me batty."

"Because he cheats on his girlfriends and then they break into your apartment," Phil says, and then bites his tongue. That's not how he wants to play this at all.

Kate opens her mouth, and then closes it. She says, "Look," and then stops when the waiter comes back with wine. She gives him a tight smile as he hands her the cork to smell and swishes a few drops in her glass for her to tastes. Phil bites down on a smile.

Once the waiter leaves, Kate fidgets with the stem of her wineglass. "You seem pretty cool. I mean, I've known you for like a day, and most of that was putting out fires. And you've got some crazy stuff going on, sorry about that, by the way."

Phil inclines his head.

"But you seem like you could be good for my friend. Except it's all happening really fast, and he doesn't have the best track record for making decisions. And I'm tired of seeing him get hurt." She takes a sip of her wine. "I'm not going to warn you off him or anything like that. I just. Wanted to talk to you."

Phil nods and says, "That's reasonable." He drinks some wine and watches Kate relax, and breathes a little easier himself. He can work with this. He asks, "Do you like Broadway?"

"I'm sorry?" Kate says.

"Neil Patrick Harris is playing in _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_. I've been wanting to go for a while," Phil says. Kate stares at him. "Or if you like something classic, _Chicago_ is always good."

"I've seen _Chicago_ ," Kate says. "What?"

Phil puts down his wineglass and sets his hands flat on the table. He says, "I'm not breaking up with Clint," and there it is, that flash of misery again. "You're one of the most important people in his life, and I'd like it if we got along. We don't have to, but I want to see if we can."

"So, musical theater? That's a _great_ way to make friends."

"I've always thought so," Phil says. He picks up his wineglass again. He'll have to stop after these last few sips, if he wants to get any work done this afternoon. But it is delicious. Kate seems to have good taste in many things, not just in people.

"You're bananas," Kate says.

Their food arrives. The waiter fusses with grinding pepper and shaving parmesan, and Phil savors the last of his wine. He waits until the waiter is gone and says, "No, but I have had my priorities shifted recently." Kate eyes him over her fork. "I really don't care about the rules anymore. And I think you're pretty cool, too. If I'm going to be sticking around, I'd like to get to know you better."

He takes a bite of his food while he waits for her answer. The pappardelle _is_ excellent.

Finally, she says, "I do like a good show." She sounds thoughtful.

Phil has a moment of fierce admiration for this woman who reaches out, who protects her friends, who lets near-strangers into her life. He takes another bite of pasta, and when she says, "So that stuff in Zagreb was crazy, right?" he answers.

\-----

His people are all on the Bus, which is parked on the Helicarrier, which is docked just south of Chelsea Piers. Phil walks from the restaurant with Lucky, testing his newly-stitched feet out. Ninth Avenue is filled with rushing businesspeople, confused tourists, teenagers playing hooky. Phil buys doggie snacks at a bodega south of Port Authority, and calls Clint as he's working out places in his suit to hide them.

"Hey, hi, you called," Clint says, sounding happy and wary at the same time.

Phil tries to focus on their conversation from this morning. He wants to be practical and measured. But he can't help it, he hears Clint's voice and just relaxes all at once. "Hi," he says, wondering if he sounds as smitten as he feels. It's entirely possible that he does. "How is your day going?"

"Weird, actually," Clint says. "Kate sent a cleaning crew. There were all these places in my apartment that I thought, whatever, the walls are stained, that's just how it is. And now the stains aren't there. Turns out I was just a sloppy bastard. Uh. You probably don't want to hear about this. We could talk about -- I mean."

Lucky looks up at Phil -- or, perhaps, at Phil's phone. _That's right_ , Phil thinks, _we both miss him_. He gives Lucky a treat. "I want to hear about that."

"Oh, um," Clint says, and then goes quiet.

Phil asks, "Does Kate have your apartment cleaned often?"

"No, never. She's always ragging on me about it, though. Maybe she just got tired of my mess."

Maybe she saw the blood and broken glass and wanted to do a kind thing. Maybe she wants to make sure she still has a place in Clint's life. Phil tries not to speculate. He knows, with Kate, he'll most likely get it wrong, but his mind can't help spitting out possibilities. He says, "I'd still like to see you tonight, if you're free."

"Seriously?" Clint asks. "I mean, yes, yeah, I'd like to see you, too."

Phil smiles. "I'm meeting with my team now, and I'm not sure how long it's going to take. I'd like to say I'll be free in time for dinner, but I can't promise anything."

Clint says, "That's okay." It's too quick, as if he's used to giving ground to people. Phil shakes his head, even though Clint can't see him. He wants Clint to expect special treatment all the time. They can work on that.

He says, "Why don't we both get dinner on our own, and I'll call you when I'm heading over."

"Yeah, that works," Clint says.

Phil has to stop himself from saying something hopelessly embarrassing, like, 'Bye, sweetheart,' as he hangs up. He looks down at Lucky, who cocks his head and wags his dented tail. "I've got it bad," Phil tells him. Lucky has no advice.

\-----

As he's coming up on 34th Street, he feels a presence at his side, different from the crush of people all trying to get to get from the subway to Macy's. He says, "Agent Romanov," without turning to look.

She says, "I'm working on your 0-8-4."

Phil stops and stares at her. The stream of humanity around them parts. One man swears at them, and then gulps and backs away when Romanov gives him a look. Phil says, "How did you --"

"May didn't tell me," Romanov says.

"I know that," Phil says.

The corner of Romanov's mouth tilts up. She starts walking, and Phil scrambles to follow her. Lucky licks at her wrist, and she scratches him behind the ears. Romanov says, "I'm talking to her, and putting some pieces together. I want to be involved in whatever your team is doing."

"Are we also involving the Director?" Phil asks.

Natasha hesitates, and then says, "Not yet."

That's less of a relief than Phil thought it would be. "Mostly we're just waiting around to see what happens," he admits. "You're not going to tell me what you know, or how you know it, are you?"

Romanov shakes her head. "It's not safe right now."

"But when it is," Phil says.

She nods. "But when it is."

They walk a half a block in silence. Phil is much less enamored of the spring day and the exercise, after this revelation. He is back to wanting a bucket of coffee and three hours of silence, and he is not looking forward to meeting with his team. Maybe he can cuddle Lucky through the whole thing. The thought makes him smile.

He says, "Clint told me you two don't keep track of each other's missions anymore."

Romanov frowns. He doesn't often see her this expressive. "I know where Clint is when he's out on assignment, but he won't let me tell him anything. Not since Loki."

"Ah," Phil says.

"It's moronic," she says. "I hope you can knock some sense into him. I haven't had any success."

Phil says, "I won't be doing any knocking, but I can talk to him."

She sighs, and her face returns to its bland mask. "That's the best anyone can hope for," she says. "I'll be in touch."

"I look forward to it, Agent Romanov," Phil says.

She looks at him sideways. "Coulson, I mourned you when I thought you were dead. Call me Natasha."

Phil swallows, and nods. "Natasha, then," he says. So many gifts today.

She lifts a hand in farewell, and a moment later she is lost in the crowd and Phil and Lucky are alone.

\-----

Phil isn't sure what he was expecting when he got to the Bus, but it definitely wasn't Grant Ward with a boot-print bruise on his face, slouching back in his seat and grinning at everyone. The others are all standing around him and admiring or laughing at his new decoration. Skye reaches out to poke at his face and asks, "Why are you so relaxed, anyway? Did you finally get laid? Was this consensual?"

May looks amused, although Phil may be the only person who can see it.

Ward's ears turn pink. He tilts his head away from Skye's finger and says, "I met Coulson's asset the other night. He said he'd teach me some moves."

"What kind of moves? Why would getting kicked in the face make you _happy_?" she asks.

"I think it's adorable," Simmons says. "It's lovely that you're making friends."

Ward frowns at her. "Thank you?"

"Is this what winning or losing looks like?" Fitz asks.

Ward's shrugs. "It wasn't a fair fight, so we're not counting it."

Phil stops in the doorway to the lounge and watches them for a minute, loving their energy and the particular way they all fit together. This may be the day they all leave him. He gives himself a minute to just watch, and then he asks, “How is Mr. Wilson?”

“Annoying,” Ward says, smiling. Then the smile drops off his face and he sits up straight. “Sir, I mean --”

“No, annoying is about the size of it,” Phil says, stepping into the lounge. “I'm glad you two are getting along. It should help his transition into the organization.”

Phil can almost see Ward mentally shuffle his morning activities from the column labeled, 'Fun, and not for work,' to the column of, 'For work, but also fun.' Ward nods at him, and he nods back.

Phil watches the five of them. Fitzsimmons look curious and eager. May looks calm, and it settles him to meet her eyes. Ward, for all his bruises, looks professional and ready for orders. Skye looks subdued, but nods at him. He takes a breath. He is so proud of everything they've accomplished, everything they are capable of. He says, “I assume you've been fully debriefed on our actions in Zagreb.”

May gets a crinkle between her eyebrows. She says, “Well enough.” Phil makes a mental note to talk to the agents who debriefed them.

He says, “I haven't really had the opportunity to talk with any of you since,” and pauses. “Well, since I ran away.”

Fitz frowns. Skye stares at her feet.

“I won't insult you by apologizing again, after you all were gracious enough to accept it the first time. But if you want to talk about why I did what I did, or what it means for me to be leading this team, given what you know of me --”

“Coulson,” May says. “Shut up.”

Phil sucks in a breath. He hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing. He says, “No, this is important. I just want to say, my door is open. For any of you. And,” this is the hard part. “If, given the events of the last few days, any of you wishes to leave this team, I --”

“Coulson, shut up,” Skye says.

Phil digs his fingernails into his palm. “Let me say this, please.”

“No,” Ward says, surprising him. He thought, if anyone would try to hold him accountable, it would be Ward. But instead Ward just looks at him, gaze level. “We're here, and we want to work.”

Phil has to look away and clear his throat. “Well, yes, all right.” He gathers himself. He should have expected they'd be goddamn amazing. Phil has always been lucky in his people. He claps his hands together. “So, we're grounded in New York for the next two weeks, at least. If you have a place to stay, you should go there. We'll be meeting at Headquarters, mostly, except for projects you can only complete with access to the Bus.”

Simmons raises a hand.

“You don't need to do that,” Phil says.

She looks at her hand like it surprised her, and then tucks it into her lap. “What projects?” she asks.

“I am very glad you asked that,” Phil says. He feels a manic rush of energy, the kind he always gets from planning an op or running a meeting. It sweeps up under his belly and tucks itself beneath his ribs. “We're going to be helping Director Fury identify new threats to the United States. These will most likely arise, at first, as a result of our adventure in Croatia, but after a while we should be able to describe a pattern that SHIELD can use after our work is over.”

Skye asks, “You're helping the Director?”

At the same time, Fitz asks, “What new threats?”

Phil says, “The short answer is, yes, I am helping the Director. This work is important, and I want us to be a part of it.” He goes over to the computer and calls up a name. “And Fitz, this man is a new threat.”

Skye says, “I know him. JARVIS wrote him a letter the other night. He's the guy from the Russian mafia.”

Phil says, “Yes. If you remember, his letter was different.”

“Yeah, we didn't send him an invite to the party in Zagreb, we just warned him off. It was kinda weird, AC.”

Phil shouldn't be so happy to hear a nickname he dislikes. He opens his mouth, and then Ward says, “So _that's_ what happened.”

Everyone turns to look at him. “Ward?” May asks.

Ward says, “The other night, when I went to grab Wade out of lockup, we had a run-in with a bunch of Russian bruisers in tracksuits. They were all ready to grab us, and then all of a sudden they got in their vans and left.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “I didn't know about this,” he says.

“It's been a busy couple of days,” Ward says, grimacing. Phil gets distracted by the boot print on his face. “What did you even say to the guy? There were twenty-three of them. They would have put me and Wade down eventually. And they just picked up their toys and went home.”

Phil says, “I asked JARVIS to use persuasion, rather than intimidation. Mr Solomonov and his organization are a different kind of threat from a group like the Black Hand. At the time I felt they required a different kind of handling.”

“Different because they're bigger?” Skye asks.

“Yes, partly,” Phil says. “And because the mafia presence in Russia and in the United States has a vastly different history than a group like the Black Hand. Organized crime has been around for a very long time. Until now, SHIELD held off from poking that particular anthill.”

“But now we have,” May says.

“Now we have,” Phil agrees. “And we don't know what's going to happen, or when, or how. Belkin and his colleagues probably had allies that we didn't reach the other day. It's likely their competitors will try to move in on the markets the Black Hand was managing. We just created a power vacuum of unknown size and unknown significance. Director Fury wants to know, as closely as possible, what is going to happen to that power vacuum in the coming days, weeks and months.”

Fitz says, “That doesn't sound so hard.” Phil can't tell if he's joking.

May says, “All right, what do we do?”

Phil says, “May, you and Ward and I will create profiles of all known organizations that are already on SHIELD's radar. We'll think about actions they're likely to take, alliances they're likely to form, and problems they're likely to cause.”

May nods. Ward looks grim beneath his boot print.

“Skye and Fitzsimmons, I want you to get creative. Who isn't on SHIELD's radar? We don't care about terrorist organizations, militias or spies. The other agencies can handle them. But who are the people like Belkin, like the Clown, that we haven't found yet?”

There is silence for a minute, while they all look at him. He nods, and they nod back. He says, “Let's get to work.”

\-----

An hour into their new project, Skye goes to the kitchenette to get a soda and calls back, "Wait, is that a _dog_?"

Phil takes great pleasure in introducing Lucky to his team.

\-----

Finally, finally he can go back to Clint.

Phil takes his time walking up the four flights of stairs to Clint's apartment. Perhaps the mile walk earlier wasn't the best thing for his feet. Right now they are aching, and every footfall sends a sharp spike of pain from the ball of his foot, where the glass cut deepest. He stops in the hallway for a moment, to gather himself before knocking on Clint's door, and while he is standing there Clint throws the door open and says, "Come on i-- hey, you brought my dog."

Phil remembers his feelings of fear and hurt from that morning, and he remembers his desire to be practical. He had fully intended to have a serious, adult conversation. But Clint is wearing purple pajama bottoms and smiling like Phil just gave him a pony, and Phil cannot be reasonable about this man. He walks up to Clint and hugs him, standing half in and half out of the hallway, where anyone could see. He says, "I'm not breaking up with you."

"Oh," Clint says, and melts into him a little. "Okay."

"Kate said you worried."

Clint huffs against the side of Phil's head. "Kate is a nosy mother hen."

"She cares about you," Phil says.

"Yeah," Clint says, and melts a little more. "How'd I get so lucky, huh?"

They stand there for a minute, not saying anything. Then Phil tilts his head for better access and licks the side of Clint's neck. Clint jumps like he's been shocked with an electric wire. "Hi, um," he says.

Phil says, "I do want to have a conversation with you, about how we can make this work. But I'd like to have sex first."

Clint says, "Uh."

"Do you want me to try tying you up?"

Clint shudders. "I --"

The door to the apartment next door opens, and a very short man steps out. Phil and Clint freeze, still hugging. The man stares at them.

"Hey, Albert," Clint says, sounding only slightly awkward. "How's it going?"

The man huffs and walks away.

Phil doesn't move until the sound of Albert's footsteps has faded. Then he steps back, and smoothes his hair. "I'm sorry."

"What, about Albert? Nah, he's always like that. I think he's said three words to me the whole time we've been neighbors."

"No, I mean," he stops.

Clint squints at him. "You mean what?"

"I mean, if you didn't want to be out to your tenants. I was in the Army; I know the value of keeping a secret."

Clint says, "I don't want to keep you a secret." He says it like the idea never even occurred to him.

Now Phil really wants to tie him up. He says, "Inside. Now, please."

Clint's face turns red, and he scrambles back through the doorway with gratifying speed.

Phil shuts the door behind himself and takes care to lock it. He says, "Take your clothes off."

Clint pulls off his tee shirt with the same move he used the other day: yanking it by the back of the neck and pulling it forward. Phil twitches slightly at the abuse of good cotton, but then he is distracted by Clint's body, Clint's skin. Clint kicks his pants and boxers off, and stands in the middle of the living room completely naked. He is breathing hard, face flushed, and Phil has so many plans he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He says, "Do you want to be restrained?"

Clint says, "Uh," and stops. He clenches and unclenches his hands. "Yes, please?"

Phil looks around the living room. While its cleanliness is novel and delightful, he still can't find anything to tie someone with. He may have to stash some kits under the couch and in the kitchen cupboards, as a long-term plan. For now, though, he works with what he has. "Hands behind your back, please," he says, and takes off his tie.

"Holy shit," Clint says, and obeys.

Phil walks over to him and kneels down. He takes a minute to breathe in the smell of Clint's skin, and then he grabs Clint's wrists and pushes them together, tying them with his tie. Clint starts trembling. Phil asks, "Can you stand here, or do you need to lean on something?"

"I can stand," Clint says.

"Good," Phil says, and takes Clint's dick in his mouth. It's been a good long time since he's done this. Not since his Ranger days, in bar bathrooms in Kabul and back alleys in New York. But Phil loved it before, the smell of sweat and the taste of skin, and he loves it now. He licks the head of Clint's dick, and Clint moans. He tries to make it as good as he can, using one hand to stroke Clint's dick and the other to run over Clint's ass, his belly, his chest. Clint gasps and shudders.

Phil pulls off for a second. "Don't come if you can help it," he orders. "I want to make this last."

Clint says, "Oh my God," and then he says, "Okay, okay, no coming yet," when Phil takes his hands away.

Phil grins, and then goes the fuck to town.

Afterwards, Clint says, "Oh my _God_ ," and flops full length out on the floor. Phil unties Clint's hands, and then rolls the tie and sticks it in his pocket. He stretches out next to Clint, and runs a hand down Clint's chest.

"I need a minute," Clint says, sounding dazed.

Phil hums, and keeps running his hands along Clint's skin. He's hard, and he definitely wants to come sooner than later, but he likes this in-between time. From behind him, he hears Lucky give a huge, squeaky yawn. "We're boring your dog," he says.

Clint covers his face with a hand and starts laughing. "Oh, shit," he says. He laughs and laughs, curling into Phil's side. "I just got tied up and had sex in front of my dog."

"You liked it?" Phil asks. He's pretty sure Clint loved it, but it's always better to check.

"Fuck yes I liked it. I want to do it again as soon as possible. How did I not know this about myself?"

Phil hums, and runs his hand up Clint's neck to his jaw.

Clint lowers his hand a little and squints at Phil. "How did you know this about me?"

Phil considers and discards several answers, from, 'I make a career out of shaking people up,' to, 'It was honestly just a lucky guess.' He settles on, "I like paying attention to you."

Clint drops his hand away from his face and looks at Phil. Phil looks back, letting his expression change when it wants to, not trying to hide. He wasted so much time hiding from the people he loved, before. No longer.

Clint says, "Keep saying things like that and I'll start to get ideas."

Phil say, "I like giving you --" and then snaps his mouth shut when Clint rolls onto him and shoves a hand down his pants.

"What?" Clint asks, grinning. He twists his hand.

Phil shakes his head and groans.

Afterward he comes, Phil lies on his back on the living room floor and tries to catch his breath, while Clint putters around the kitchen, singing softly. "Ring ring ring ring ring, banana phone! Boop boop a doop ee doo." He comes back and yanks on Phil's arms. "Come on, come to the couch."

Phil lets himself be hauled up and plunked on the couch next to Lucky, and then he sags into the arm. Clint sings, "I've got this feeling, so appealing, for us to get together and sing. Sing!" He wanders naked back into the kitchen, and fiddles with the coffee maker.

Phil looks around, feeling full of joie de vivre. The living room, from what he can see, is pristine, and the linoleum of the kitchen spotless. And, "Hey," he says, "You replaced the window."

"Cellular, modular -- it was Kate, actually. A crew showed up about an hour after you called."

Maybe it's the twisty day he's had, or maybe it's the sex, but all of a sudden the pieces shuffle into place in his head. Click click click, goes his brain, and of course that's how everything should work, of _course_. It's going to be so good, Phil can tell right now.

He sags into the couch and smiles. When Clint sings, "I'll call for pizza, I'll call my cat, I'll call the White House and have a chat," he hums along.

\-----

Phil lets himself be distracted by an episode of _Dog Cops_. He had never seen it before, and Clint, scandalized, had queued up the very first episode on a DVD player that looked like it was held together with chewing gum and hope. The show is enjoyable, and Phil gets almost all the way through it before he notices Clint tensing against his side. He presses his nose into Clint's hair. "Hmm?"

"You said you wanted to talk," Clint says, voice quiet.

"So I did," Phil says. He pauses the show, and turns.

Clint is still mostly naked, although he'd put his boxers back on to curl up on the couch. He looks far too small and vulnerable. Phil kisses him, soft and lingering.

"What do you think I'm going to say?" Phil asks.

Clint darts his gaze away. "I don't know. You said you're not leaving, but you heard me and Jess this morning. You know what I'm like."

Phil thinks for a moment. It's too early to put his idea out there, but there are some things they can figure out tonight. He says, "I have some questions first, if that's all right."

This makes Clint look even smaller, but he lifts his chin and says, "Yeah, okay."

Phil reaches out and tucks Clint back against his side. "You said you got freaked out. Does that often happen to you, in relationships?"

Clint hesitates. "Yeah," he says, "but it's worse since. Since Loki."

"What happens?"

"I don't _know_ ," Clint says.

"All right, poor question. I'm sorry."

"No, what?" Clint tries to pull away to look at him, and Phil grips tighter. "You don't need to be sorry."

"I am anyway," Phil says. "Next question -- the cheating."

Clint's body goes stiff under Phil's arm. "I, uh. What about it?"

"What happened?"

"I fucked up, what do you think happened?"

Phil sighs. He is usually much better at this. "I'm sorry, I wasn't specific. I can picture a lot of situations, with a lot of different factors. Was this long-term? Did you care about this other person?"

"This is the worst dating fix-it talk I've ever had, I want you to know that," Clint says.

Phil flinches. He should have thought about what Clint needed, he should have planned better. This is --

"Hey, no, Phil, c'mon," Clint says. He manages to pull away this time, and then turns so that their faces are right up close to each other.

"I realize my methods aren't for everybody," Phil starts.

Clint snorts. "I already knew you like to color-code your socks, Phil. You need a plan, I get it, this is fine. It's just shitty to talk about all the ways I'm a bad person."

Phil frowns. "You're not a bad person."

Clint sits back and flaps a hand. "Don't worry about it."

"No, this is important. Did someone tell you that?"

Clint says, "Being me told me that. You think anybody else has the life I did, fucks up the ways I've fucked up, because they're a good guy? Here you are, making plans to protect yourself from all the ways I'm gonna hurt you later."

Phil says, "Actually, I was trying to negotiate an open relationship."

Clint's mouth drops open.

Phil sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "Very clumsily, but. That's where I was going with the questions."

Clint asks, "You want to have sex with other people?"

"No," Phil says.

"Then what --"

"Well, we got derailed while I was trying to figure out your behavior patterns. But basically, if _you_ need to sleep with other people in order to feel safe, or happy, we can make that work."

There is a long silence. Phil bites his lip.

"I'm gonna put on some clothes, I think," Clint says, and scrambles off the couch. He is out of the living room and up the stairs in record time. Then Phil is alone with a freeze-frame still of _Dog Cops_ and the battered remains of a very awkward conversation.

\-----

Clint comes back after about ten minutes, wearing Black Widow pajama bottoms and looking much calmer. He sits on the couch, opens his mouth, closes it. He asks, "What's going on in your head?"

Phil says, "I want to be happy, and I want you to be happy, and I don't care what it looks like."

"But you think it looks like me needing to fuck around."

Phil grimaces. "It's a working theory based on limited information."

Clint is quiet for a minute. Then he says, "I don't think that's it. With me."

"Okay," Phil says.

"But I appreciate the acrobatics."

"They're not," Phil sighs. "I've had open relationships before."

"You _have_?" Clint looks fascinated.

"Not serious ones," Phil admits. "But that doesn't mean it couldn't work."

Clint starts laughing. "Oh my God. This is the weirdest conversation I have had today. And I talked with a bunch of Cuban grandmothers about the best way to get blood off my living room floor."

"This is not the weirdest conversation I've had today," Phil says, beginning to smile.

Clint laughs harder. "I was going," he gasps. "I was going to say it's the weirdest conversation I've had all week. And then I remembered I've spent all week with you."

Phil cracks up. They lean against each other on the couch, giggling helplessly. Lucky opens his eye and watches them, and then when they don't stop making noise he gets up and wanders away.

It takes them a while to calm down. They keep setting each other off into fits of laughter. It feels good, though, and Phil has hope. They finish the episode of _Dog Cops_ and then go upstairs to sleep.

\-----

Phil's meeting with Fury wraps at noon. His team has made a good start, and he's proud of them. He is packing up his tablet when Fury leans over the table and puts a slim, unmarked manila file folder in front of him. Phil freezes.

"This is the only copy," Fury says. "I destroyed everything else. You can do whatever you want with it."

Phil hovers his hand over the folder, not daring to touch.

"I can stay, if you have questions --"

"Yes," Phil says. It's easier to throw his tablet at Fury if Fury is still in the room. Not that he _will_ , necessarily, just that he wants the option. He sets his fingers on top of the folder, delicate. Then he opens it quick, like ripping off a bandaid.

There are no pictures, no medical records. Just handwritten pages torn out of a journal. Phil recognizes Fury's chicken scratch from when they were Rangers. He reads the first page, and then reads it again.

"Dr. Stephen Strange of Columbia Presbyterian," he says. "Don't fucking lie to me, Nick. You did not bring me _back from the dead_ at a hospital in Washington Heights."

"Just read," Fury says.

Phil turns the page, and then covers the paper with his hand. "The scepter? What --"

"Just," Fury looks like this is making him physically ill. _Good_ , Phil thinks, feeling broken and cruel. "Keep reading."

Phil does. The story is at once both mind-boggling and mundane. Nick Fury had an idea, he found a person to make it work, and he tried it. Then he tried it again, six more times.

The language of the journal is straightforward, more detail than evaluation or analysis. Phil uses that trick on his own reports, and he has gotten used to teasing out the emotion from bland descriptions of events. This is the story of a sad, scared, desperate man. A story of alien technology and magic. A story about Phil's corpse. Phil makes himself read every single word, and then he closes the folder. He says, "So I'm still me."

Fury has, in the intervening time, gotten hold of himself. He says, "Of course you're still you."

"There's no of course about it. Stark's making Life Model Decoys, you took my brain apart and gave me fake memories. Who's to say that," Phil stops himself. He digs his fingernails into his palms. "I'm not quite all the way human, anymore." Fury opens his mouth, and then closes it. "But I am Phil Coulson."

"Yes," Fury says.

"The same man I was before."

"Yes," Fury says.

Phil looks down at the tabletop. It isn't interesting, but it's better than the alternative.

Fury says "Cheese --" and Phil stands, shoving his chair back with a screech.

"Agent May will be in tomorrow at eleven, Director," he says. "She'll have more information for you."

Fury says, "Coulson. Just wait a minute."

Phil looks into his eye and says, "Marcus. Please stop."

Fury closes his eye, shuts his mouth and nods.

Phil says, "Excuse me, Director." walks as slow and calm as he can to Fury's office door. This time, he doesn't let himself lean against the wall. He doesn't let himself show weakness. What he does it take out his phone, meaning to call -- he doesn't know. Not Clint, he doesn't want Clint to see him like this. Maybe Pepper.

There's another text from Kate on his phone. "Lunch again?" it asks.

Phil doesn't let himself think about it. He texts back, "Alcohol."

\-----

They meet at a place on 46th that serves pub food -- for Kate -- and has thirty different kinds of beer -- for Phil. It's only one in the afternoon, but the woman at the bar doesn't even blink when Phil orders two pints of beer to start with. He tips her double for it.

Kate is sitting in a booth on the second floor, scowling down at her phone. There is already a plate of wedge fries in front of her on the table, and she's sipping at a glass of water. She looks up and smiles when Phil slides into the booth opposite her. "Hey, oh, I don't want anything to drink."

"These are for me," Phil tells her, and starts drinking.

"O-kay," she says, leaning back and pulling the wedge fries toward herself. "I guess you really like beer, huh."

"I hate it," Phil tells her between gulps. "It tastes like a bowling alley floor." It is, however, the best type of alcohol to get him painfully drunk as quickly as possible. He learned that in college, the hard way.

She stares at him. "I was going to ask about your conversation with Clint last night, but I feel like now's not the best time." She waves a server over. "Can we get two burgers and a lot more fries? Just, bring lots of carbs."

Phil finishes his first beer and gets started on his second.

"Jeez," Kate says. "You maybe want to slow it down? It is the middle of the work day, and all."

Phil says, "I'm pretty okay with the fact that I'm not going to get fired."

Kate looks at him with dawning comprehension. She says, "You know what? Screw it, I _am_ going to get a drink."

Phil is halfway through his second beer. He says, "Bring me another one, too, please."

She says, "This is going to be so bad. Will you at least eat the burger when it comes?"

Phil considers. "I can do that," he allows, and finishes his second beer.

\-----

Kate gets him into a taxicab at some point. Phil allows it, because he trusts her not to take him back to Headquarters and he's grateful she kept bringing him beer. He mushes his face against the window and watches as they drive across the East River. It's a nice day out, sunny and almost warm, and Phil finally loses the awful crushing weight that's been sitting in his chest for the last few hours.

Then the cab turns onto Marcus Garvey Blvd, and Phil realizes they're heading to Clint's apartment. "Nooo," he says.

"Oh hey, you can still talk," Kate says.

"Turn around," Phil says. His tongue feels very thick, and his brain is swimmy. He hates being drunk. "No Clint."

"Why not?" Kate asks. "This is exactly what he deserves."

Phil frowns, but doesn't lift his head from the window. "Stop that. Stop being mean about him. You don't mean it."

There's a pause, and then Kate says, "No, I don't. But this is actually is a good thing, I promise."

"No," Phil says. His voice sounds petulant to his own ears.

Kate sighs. "Just trust me, okay? Also, you owe me like eight hundred favors for putting up with your creepy silent drunk-machine alter ego."

Phil says, "I do."

"Owe me favors? Can I get that in writing?"

He tries to shake his head, and ends up squishing his nose further into the window. "Trust you," he says.

"Oh," Kate says. Her voice sounds funny, but Phil is too drunk to be able to figure out why.

"And owe you favors," he says.

Kate is quiet for a few blocks, but it's a thinking quiet.

The cab pulls to a stop in front of Clint's building before he can ask what she's thinking about. Kate comes around and opens his door, and catches him when he unbalances and almost falls on his face on the pavement. "Okay, drunky. Upstairs time."

Kate has a key to Clint's building. It makes Phil smile. "I'm right, this is a good idea," he tells her, and then bites his tongue. She isn't supposed to know yet.

"This is actually a terrible idea," Kate says, looping Phil's arm around her shoulder. "And I'm a terrible enabler. But if anybody deserves to drink themselves stupid, it's SHIELD people. That place just chews you up."

"Worth it," Phil tells her. "Mostly."

On the second floor, Phil gets distracted by crashing, squawking noises coming out of one of the apartments. It sounds like a parrot trying to kill a dot matrix printer. Phil stumbles toward the door, curious, and flails when Kate drags him back. "No way, my friend. You're going up to Clint's place before you get into any more trouble."

"But, bird," Phil says.

"Yeah, that is weird," Kate says. "If I tell you I'll check it out, will you calm down?"

Phil thinks about it, and then gets distracted by the next flight of stairs.

When they finally get to the right floor, Kate props him against the wall while she opens Clint's front door. Phil rubs the back of his head against the paintwork, and tries to calm his spinning thoughts. He stands up when she pulls on his arm, and almost trips as he's walking over the threshold. He sees Clint sitting in the kitchen in his boxers, half an avocado in one hand, his cheek pouched out like he's in the middle of chewing. Clint says, "Uh, guys?" and Phil just lets go of everything. He sits on the floor and covers his face with his hands.

He hears footsteps, and the sound of the front door closing. Clint asks, "What the hell did you do?"

"Oh, yeah, you're welcome for taking care of your drunk-ass boyfriend," Kate says.

"Why is he drunk?" Clint says. Phil feels a hand on his shoulder and leans into it. He'll get up in a minute. He just needs a minute.

"He didn't tell me. He didn't really talk much at all. By the way, silent drinking is terrifying. Please always make conversation when you're at a bar."

"Kate," Clint says.

"Look, I don't know for sure. But if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say he's still fucked up about coming back from the dead and, like, working for the dude who did it to him."

Phil mumbles, "I'm still me."

Clint crouches down next to him, and says, "Hey, Phil, hey," in a gentle voice.

"I was worried, I." Phil leans his head against Clint's side, and Clint wraps an arm around him. "For a while, I wasn't sure if I'd ever really existed."

Clint huffs a soft laugh. "Oh, you definitely existed, sir. I have six mission reports from six crazy-ass missions that prove it."

Phil shakes his head. "Somebody else," he says.

"I don't understand," Clint says.

Kate says, "Look, I'm going to go, okay? You don't really need me here for this."

Clint says, "Hey, Phil, come over to the couch. I'm gonna say goodbye to Katie, all right?"

Phil nods, and lets himself be moved. He curls up on his side like a little kid, and closes his eyes. He hears Clint say, "Thank you for taking care of him."

"Yeah, well," Kate says, sounding awkward.

"What were you even doing -- wherever you found him? Did he call you to pick him up or something?"

Kate says, "I invited him out for lunch. Then he showed up with crazy eyes and proceeded to drink a truly impressive amount of beer, and eat like six things of wedge fries. When your boy gets shitfaced, he is _serious_."

Clint says, "You invited him for lunch? You never hang out with the people I'm dating."

There's the sound of creaking floorboards. "I'm making a friend," Kate says. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"My problem is you've been acting weird since we got back from Zagreb. The cleaning crew, the phone calls."

"Since when is it a crime to do something nice?" Kate's voice is getting louder. "You clearly can't take care of _yourself_."

"Hey," Clint says. "Come on."

Phil hears creaking floorboards again, and then a loud sigh. "Look, just," Kate says. "Let me be nice, okay? Let me take care of my friends."

There's a pause, and then Clint says, "Okay, Katie." Phil listens as Kate walks to the door, and then as Clint shuts it behind her.

He says, "I'm sorry," into the silence that follows.

"Aw, hey, no," Clint says, walking over. "Don't be sorry, you got nothing to be sorry for. You want a shower?"

Phil opens his eyes, and sees Clint's beautiful face right up close, looking concerned. "I might fall," he says.

"Fortunately for you, you've got me here," Clint says. "And I am great at showers."

Phil reaches out with both hands and cups them around Clint's face. The angle is weird, but he doesn't mind. He says, "If I wasn't me anymore."

Clint shakes his head, looking sad. "No, come on."

"If I wasn't," Phil says. "It would still be worth it."

Clint frowns and squints at him.

"To have you," Phil clarifies.

Clint's face does something funny Phil can't read, and then Clint leans in and kisses him. Phil kisses back, loving the taste of his mouth, the shape of his lips, the warmth of his breath. All of it.

When Clint pulls back, he tugs on Phil's wrists to lead him up off the couch. "After your shower we can take a nap, or watch a stupid movie or something."

"Okay," Phil says, and lets himself be led.

Clint undresses the both of them. His hands are gentle as he soaps Phil's skin. Phil sags, pressing his face into Clint's shoulder. He doesn't talk when they wash up, or when Clint dries him with a scratchy gray towel, or when Clint plants him back down on the couch and starts up an episode of _Dog Cops_. He lies down with his head on Clint's lap and breathes in the smell of Clint's skin and closes his eyes.

\-----

Phil jerks awake to the sound of a slamming door. It's dark and his head is pounding. Someone flicks the light on, and he cringes and shoves his face into the couch cushions. "Ugh," he says.

"You're fucking right about that," Kate says, sounding furious.

Phil lifts his head off the couch and squints around the room. Kate is standing by the front door in her purple jumpsuit, carrying a bow and scowling. She has a clump of gray feathers in her hair. Clint is nowhere to be seen. "What?" he asks.

"Your _boyfriend_ ," Kate spits, "is the most frustrating, impossible person who ever walked the face of the Earth."

Phil levers himself into a sitting position. "What happened?"

Kate makes a garbled noise of rage and waves her hands around, almost whacking her bow into a standing lamp.

Phil considers, and then says, "Give me five minutes to get dressed. You can tell me on the way."

Shrugging on his beery, wrinkled suit takes three and a half minutes, although the movement makes him want to vomit. Kate stands by the door and fumes the whole time, although she averts her gaze while he's changing. Walking is fine, but clomping down the stairs rattles his poor head, and he takes each flight a little slower than the last one. On the second floor landing, Phil stops and stares. "What?" he asks.

The entire landing is covered in gray feathers and broken furniture. There's a small child, no more than seven years old, playing blocks in the lee of a tipped-over, three legged table. She looks up at them as they pass. "The police are gone, Miss Kate," she says.

"Good," Kate says. "Rachel, this is Phil. He and I are going to go find the bad men that did this."

The little girl considers, and then says, "You could put a monster bird in _their_ house."

Kate grins, and says, "That is a fantastic idea. You keep safe." She tugs Phil's arm and they keep walking.

Phil's brain isn't working particularly well, but he can still add one and one to make two. "The noises from earlier?" he guesses.

"Got it in one. The Kapoors got a young African Gray yesterday from an exotic bird store. Only the store also does a side business in both cocaine and genetic experiments."

"How enterprising of them," Phil says, wiping sweat off his face. He should have drunk some water before they left the apartment. He feels like his head is going to fall off.

"You mean obnoxious. It was crazy there for a little while. You sleep really heavily when you're drunk, you know that?"

"I'm becoming aware," Phil says.

Then they are out in the cool night air. Phil takes a deep breath, and then wrinkles his nose. He also should have worn clothing that smells less like a bar crawl, and possibly taken a second shower.

Phil waits until they're settled in Kate's adorable, tragically obvious purple Beetle before he asks, "And why are you so angry?"

Kate, who was mostly calm after their run-in with little Rachel, swells up with anger again. "Futzing Clint and his futzing martyr complex and his futzing stupid decisions."

Phil puts his face in his hands. "He's already at the pet store, isn't he?" Of course he is.

Kate zooms up Bedford Ave far past the speed limit. Cars and taxicabs honk at them as they pass. "He has this stupid idea that he needs to be worthy of you or something. Apparently that means running off to face bullshit like this alone."

Phil frowns. That, he definitely had _not_ expected. "Worthy? Of me?" The idea borders on ludicrous.

Kate says, "You do not understand the extent of the freakout he's been having for the past couple of days. It's the stupidest and the worst. I mean, he thinks all that stuff with you dying and coming back to life is _his fault_. What world is he living in?"

Phil says, "Oh," and all the breath leaves him at once. Was that why Clint, why they --

"Hey, no no no," Kate says. She waves her arm in his face, and then drags it back to the wheel. "Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it. The guy is bonkers over you. He's just, you know, Clint, so he has a little extra bonkers."

Phil takes a breath, feeling it lift him up, and covers his face with his hands. "Okay," he says. "Okay." They're a pair, him and Clint. He might have a little extra bonkers, himself.

"Do you know what he's talking about?" Kate asks.

Phil drops his hands and turns to look at her. They are on the Manhattan Bridge now, driving over the river. Kate flicks a glance at him, curious, trusting. Phil says, "I have no idea what he could possibly feel responsible for," and sees her shoulders go down a tiny bit.

"That's what I told him," she says.

Phil nods, and then wishes he hadn't. His head hurts, and he can't stand the smell of himself, and he's started fantasizing about dunking his head in a water fountain. He says, "Thank you for bringing me."

Kate says, "Hey, as crazy as he's been the last few days, it's actually a lot less crazy than he was before. You're good for him."

Phil says, "We could be better," without thinking about it.

Kate's hands jerk on the wheel, and the car swerves for a second. " _What_?"

Oh, hell. What awful timing. Damn Phil's hung over brain. "That came out wrong," he says.

"It better have come out wrong. Because it sounds like you just propositioned me."

Phil grimaces. Maybe he can still salvage this. "I actually did," he says, feeling the words out.

Kate says, "Once we're off the bridge, you are getting the fuck out of my car." Her voice is cold. "If you think I'm going to do that to my _best friend_ , then you --"

A lightbulb goes off in Phil's head. "Wait, no no no," he says. "Not with _me_. I meant I was, well, it's not quite propositioning, more like an offer of," he stops, and takes a breath. Kate has her shoulders up around her ears, and she isn't looking at him. He needs to fix this, and quickly. He says, "You asked me, earlier today, about my conversation with Clint last night."

"Yeah, because he wasn't making any sense."

"What I was trying to do before, badly," Phil says, "and what I am doing _very_ badly now, is to, well, to give Clint more people, basically."

Kate is silent for a minute. They drive off the bridge and into Chinatown. She doesn't pull over and kick him out, which Phil takes as a good sign. "You don't mean like getting him hookers," she says finally. She sounds like she is chewing over this idea, trying to decide how it tastes.

"No, that's the opposite of what I mean. I mean," he stops, and gathers his thoughts. "You were there when I fell for him, did you know that?"

"No?" Kate says. "Promise me this is going somewhere that makes sense."

Phil ignores that for the moment. He needs his thoughts in order, so that he can explain. "It was in the Tower, during that argument I had with Director Fury. We were --"

"In the hallway," Kate says. "I'd just gotten off a flight from LA, and Clint and I were talking in the hallway."

"Yes," Phil says. "And I was having the most painful conversation I've had in a very long time. And then Clint came and stood at my back. He'd spent less than twenty-four hours with me at that point, outside of the missions we'd worked together years ago. But he faced down his own boss, a man he admires and respects, a man who could make his life very unpleasant -- for me."

"Yeah, he does that," Kate says, sounding lost.

"I want to give him anything that would make him happy," Phil says. "But I also, I'm aware that, well. You've been there since the start, in a way. And you've been facilitating a lot for us."

"Our talk that night," Kate says, nodding.

"And then lunch yesterday. You translate him for me. And the cleaning crews, I didn't think to call them. And whatever conversations you've been having with Clint over the past few days. The idea of having you be a part of our relationship -- feels right," he says. She glances over at him, face unreadable. "Whatever that looks like. I think that the two of you love each other, and that you help each other. And I wanted to be very clear, with you and with Clint, that I know how important your friendship is. I think it balances Clint and me. Maybe it's the reason we fit so well."

Kate is silent as she drives up Bowery. She stops at a traffic light at East 4th and says, "So, not hookers, then."

Phil laughs, relieved. "No," he says. "Something different. Better."

She breathes out, and her shoulders go down. "I have to think about this."

"I'm not in any rush," Phil says, relaxing. His head, already trouble, starts to pound even harder.

"Because I can't be you, okay, I can't just _handle_ this stuff and like, he already drives me completely crazy. If I was his girlfriend," she shakes her head. "We'd hate each other, I know we would. I don't want that."

Phil says, "That makes sense."

"And," she says, "I can't just be the glue that, that. It's too much. He's too much sometimes." She sounds, suddenly, as if she's about to cry.

"Not for me," Phil says, putting the weight of conviction behind it. "And I'm not asking you to be a girlfriend, or glue, or anything that doesn't work. I'm just -- proposing we be a little more deliberate about what does work."

"Actual communication?" she asks, voice wobbly. "What an idea."

Phil smiles. He says, "Take now for example."

"What about now?" She sounds calmer, which is very good.

"Your best friend made some decisions you thought were wrong."

"Completely moronic, you mean," Kate says.

"And you came and got me. Why?"

Kate says, "I told you, you're good for him."

"And you help me be good for him, and I can help him be good for you." Phil grimaces. "Or a more coherent sentence that means the same thing. I should have written some notes. I'm not at my best right now."

"No, I think I get what you're saying. Like, it's not a death-do-us-part thing, or even necessarily a sex thing. It's a how-can-life-be-most-awesome thing."

"Yes," Phil says. "Maybe. Repeat that to me tomorrow."

She snorts. "Oh, you'll be hearing about this again from me. Tomorrow you're making diagrams."

Phil says, "I like making diagrams."

"Of course you do," she says. 

They're quiet for a minute as they speed north along 3rd Ave. Then Kate asks, "When are you going to talk about this with Clint?"

It's an important question, and there is no best answer. Phil asks, "When do you want me to?"

"After I kick his ass," she says.

Phil laughs, and then has to massage his temples. "No more beer ever again," he says.

"I think that sounds like a great idea," Kate says. "Right up there with 'don't try to take on the Russian mafia by yourself' and 'don't buy genetically mutated parrots'."

"Words to live by," Phil says.

They're both silent for brief rest of the ride. Phil cracks his window and leans up so that cool air blows onto his forehead. He may have just made things harder, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels as if the foundation of something is being laid.

"We're here," Kate says, dissolving his musings.

Phil makes sure he has his gun and his knife, and he follows Kate out of the car.

\-----

The front of the pet store is dark, but the door is cracked slightly. Kate pushes it a fraction, and when there is no cheery bell announcing their presence, she opens it the rest of the way and slips inside. Phil follows her.

Inside the store smells of stale feathers, bird-seed, and something unrecognizable that makes Phil's hackles go up. Most of the space is taken up by large cages, and in each of the cages is a large and angry-looking bird. They are all awake, and they are staring at Kate and Phil.

From the back of the store comes the sound of someone getting punched. One parrot near the entrance shrieks, "Fuck off! Fuck off!"

Phil flinches and looks for a place to hide. Kate draws her bow and waits.

After a moment, they hear someone yell, "Shut up! Goddamn birds." The voice is coming from the back of the store. If Phil squints in the murky darkness, he can see the outline of a door behind the back counter. He steps closer, until he can see the line of light underneath the door.

Then Clint's voice says, "I'm a dog person, myself."

"You, shut the fuck up, too," says the same voice as before. "Also, aren't you legally obligated to like birds or something?"

"Well --" Clint starts.

"No, actually shut up," a new voice says.

The parrot near the front yells, "Fuck off!" again. Phil and Kate freeze again, and then relax when nobody comes storming out of the back room.

"God, why did we teach him that?" the second voice asks. "Now we're never going to sell him."

Kate leans close to his ear. "I've heard enough," she says, her voice as quiet as dust. "On three?"

"Wait," Phil breathes. "We don't know how many are in there. Or what weapons they have."

There's the sound of someone getting punched again, and he hears Clint groan.

"All right, on three," Phil says.

"One," Kate says, drawing her bow and stepping over to the door. Phil squints so he won't be blinded by the light, and raises his gun. "Two, three." She kicks down the door to the back room.

Over Kate's shoulder, Phil can see stack of boxes, a table with a computer on it, a single overhead hanging bulb like you find in mobster movies, and Clint tied to a chair with blood in his hair. There is a man standing over him; he's about Phil's age and he looks terminally ill. He is holding a giant gun and aiming it at Clint's head.

"What the hell?" he asks, and Phil recognizes him as the first voice, the one that told the parrots to shut up. "Who the fuck are you?"

"You swear a lot," Kate says, and shoots the man in his gun hand.

Two men rush forward out of the shadows. They both pull guns on her, and she shoots them in their legs. One man yelps and drops his gun, but the other man keeps a grip on his. Kate shoots him in his lower arm. There is only one other person in the back room, a woman huddling against the wall near a table, and she puts her hands up as soon as Kate looks at her. "Don't worry about me," she says. "I'm not stupid enough to try anything." The whole thing is over in less than three minutes.

Kate says, "Phil, check her for guns," and Phil walks over and pats her down. He looks around for any other hostiles, and when he doesn't find evidence of any he nods to Kate.

She relaxes, bow coming down, and turns to look at Clint. His face is a mess of bruises, and he looks sheepish. "Hey, Hawkeye," he says.

"Four people?" she asks. The anger from earlier is back. "You let _four people_ get the drop on you? Were you asleep?"

"Hey, there were others," Clint says. "You wanna untie me?"

"There were like three others," the strange woman says.

"They're long gone," the older man says, holding his bloody hand close to his chest. "You'll never find them!"

"Please be quiet, both of you," Phil says.

"You refuse to take backup, you _bench_ me like I'm in Little League, and then you get taken out by three minions and somebody's grandpa?"

"Hey," one of the minions says, from where he's lying on the floor.

Phil waves his gun in the man's face, and the man shuts up.

"You are the most frustrating human being," Kate says, and then stops and take three deep breaths.

Clint has gone from looking sheepish to looking upset. "I'm sorry, Katie," he says.

That seems to snap her out of whatever calm she was building. She growls at him and marches into the front of the store. A few seconds later, an arrow flies through the open door and thunks into the back of Clint's chair. His arms drop to his side, the rope severed. The front door of the pet store slams shut.

All the parrots in the front of the store start shrieking.

Clint looks down at his hands, and then around the room and over to Phil.

Phil nods at him, and then says, "All right, people, come sit on the floor in a circle. Hands and feet where I can see them at all times."

He waits until the four of them are settled in the pool of light from the overhead bulb, and then steps up close to Clint.

Clint shrinks a little and says, "Hey, listen, I'm sorry."

Phil is tired and hung over, he has just had his thirty millionth weird, wrenching conversation of the past five days, and all he wants to do is take Clint home and have sex and then watch television until his hangover wears off. He says, "You have nothing to be sorry for." It isn't quite true, and he _will_ be speaking with Clint later about communication and bringing adequate backup. But it's true enough, and it makes Clint stop looking so lost.

"Okay," Clint says. "We should probably call this in." He grimaces. The night shift people at the SHIELD call center must hate his after-dark antics.

Phil says, "I'll make you a deal. I'll call it in if you get me a glass of water."

Clint perks up. "Yeah?"

Phil takes stock of his body's various aches, and then says, "Two glasses. And some painkillers."

Clint says, "Yessir," and disappears into the front of the store. He does something to make the parrots all stop screaming, for which Phil will reward him later. In the meantime, Phil pulls out his phone.

"Aren't you going to Mirandize us or something?" the woman asks. The other men on the floor with her all nod their heads.

Phil takes great pleasure in telling them, "No, I'm not."

\-----

A group of SHIELD vans come and take the cocaine, the very disturbed parrots, and the computer equipment. While they're cleaning the scene, Phil has to work to control the late-evening crowd of rubberneckers who begin congregating on the sidewalk as soon as the vans show up. Clint splits his time between giving his report and helping the SHIELD teams transport the giant bird cages. After the vans have left and the civilians mostly dispersed, a medical team drags Phil and Clint over to their mobile emergency unit to check Clint's bruised face and the stitches on both men's feet. It's another two hours before Phil can even call them a taxicab. Once they settle inside, he feels Clint's eyes on him.

"Hey," Clint says. "About earlier."

"Hmm?" Phil says. The painkillers and the water helped, but not enough. He wants a nap and a new liver. "Which part of earlier?"

"Earlier today," Clint says.

Phil stiffens. Damn. Usually he gets a least a week in a new relationship before he starts scaring them away. "I'm sorry," he starts, "It won't happen ag --"

"Do you need anything?" Clint asks.

"What?" Phil turns to look at him. Clint's serious expression and the bruises on his face make Phil ache.

Clint says, "I, uh. I would offer, like, to talk, or to go away and let you have some time to yourself. Except I hate those things." Phil laughs, and Clint twitches a smile. "And," he says, "what you've been through, I have no idea, I just. If you need anything. I'm here."

How could this man ever think he was unworthy? Phil grabs Clint's hand and brings it up to his mouth, breathing in the smell of Clint's skin, holding that heat and strength and skill close. He kisses Clint's wrist, the back of his hand, the tips of his fingers. "I'm," he says, "I'm not completely okay." It's difficult to get the words out, but it feels good all the same. "I will be, though. Just keep being here."

Clint brings his other hand up to cup Phil's jaw. "I can do that," he says.

By the time they get to Brooklyn, it's nearly two in the morning. Phil is pleased to see that most of the Kapoors' furniture is out of the second-floor landing. He says, "I met Rachel today."

Clint grins. "Yeah? Isn't she great? I think she's gonna grow up to be a nurse like her daddy." He sounds as proud as if she were his own little girl.

When they get back to Clint's apartment. Phil bundles them up the stairs to Clint's bedroom and pulls Clint on top of him, threading his fingers in Clint's hair and kissing him.

"Ow, ow," Clint says, kissing back. "Bruises, ow, don't stop."

Phil presses a soft kiss to his swollen nose, and another to the mark above his eyebrow. He kisses the corner of Clint's jaw and the hollow right below Clint's ear, and the unbruised corner of Clint's mouth. He wants everything, any way he can have it, for as long as he can have it. He wants to make life wonderful for Clint, every way he knows how.

Phil is too hung over for sex, a fact he discovers when Clint starts stroking his dick and his headache gets, astonishingly, worse.

"Aw," Clint says, pulling his hand away.

"Goddamn bodies," Phil says, feeling cranky. It deflates his grand romantic life plan a little, but not much. "This never happened when I was younger."

Clint says, "All right, we can just sleep." He rolls over onto the other side of the bed and starts wriggling out of his shirt.

Phil huffs at him. "No, take your pants off," he says. Normally he would be more polite, but today has been nothing in the realm of normal.

Clint stops wriggling, his shirt halfway up his chest. "Huh?" he says.

Phil yanks on Clint's arm until Clint is sprawled over him, ignoring Clint's noise of surprise and flailing arms. "I am going to make you come, and you're going to enjoy it," he says.

Clint turns bright red and says, "Um, okay."

Phil rolls them over for better leverage. Clint lets him, holding his arms above his head for Phil to grip. Phil holds on tight, kneeling over Clint and jerking Clint's dick with his free hand. Clint shudders and moans. Phil holds Clint while he comes, and curls them close afterward, with Clint's face tucked into the side of Phil's neck. Maybe, if Phil is very lucky, they can do this for a very long time.

They fall asleep like that, on top of the covers, pressed together.

\-----

The next morning, Phil is blessedly hangover-free. He throws on the last clean pair of trousers from his traveling bag while Clint stumbles upright and scowls around in confusion. This is the third time Phil has witnessed Clint's at-home wake up routine, and seeing it is hilarious, but also wonderful. Phil is _safe_ to him. He can relax around Phil. The very idea is intoxicating.

This morning Clint loafs out of the room and down the stairs with his eyes fully closed. Phil follows a few minutes later, buttoning his shirt, to see Clint leaning against the counter with a full carafe of coffee in his hands. He stares down at it, looking confused, and swirls the coffee. He appears to have forgotten what the coffee is for.

Phil asks, "When was the last time you saw Natasha?"

Clint transfers his confused look to Phil. "Huh?" he asks. The bruises on his face are livid, and he has somehow acquired a fresh nose brace between the bedroom and the kitchen.

Phil says, "Natasha. When was the last time you two saw each other?"

Clint yawns. "The night before we flew to Zagreb. Why?"

Phil has a lot of things he wants to say, after his conversation with Kate last night. He wants to ask about Clint's mental health in the eighteen months since the Battle of New York. He wants to explain that Clint doesn't need to prove himself, that Phil doesn't know anyone more worthy, by any metric. He wants to tell Clint, over and over in a very loud voice, that his death was not Clint's fault. But some things are better done slowly, he has learned from long experience. Clint deserves his better effort, so he just says, "I ran into her the other day, and she mentioned wanting to go over her tactics from that trip with you. She said she had to do some quick thinking to get a couple of civilians out of target eleven, reminded her of that job in Johannesburg. She didn't contact you?"

Clint looks surprised and pleased. "Yeah? I mean no, she hasn't."

Phil shrugs, careful not to watch him too closely. "Couldn't hurt to track her down."

Clint squints at him, and Phil keeps his face a blank mask. He leans against the kitchen island, propping his shoulder on the little safe there, and starts tying his tie.

Finally, Clint says, "Huh." He swirls the coffee again, and takes a sip. "Yeah, maybe I'll do that today."

Phil feels a warm, sweet bubble of happiness inside his chest. "I promise not to warn her you're coming," he says.

Clint smiles at him. It's beautiful.

\-----

Skye is late getting to Headquarters that morning. She rolls in at half past nine, oblivious to Fitzsimmons's glares, with Natasha gliding in her wake. Fitz catches sight of Natasha and chokes. Simmons looks like she's in the throes of Beatlemania. Ward and May, arguing over a human trafficking ring in the Caucasus, don't look up.

Phil wonders if she somehow found out about his conversation with Clint that morning. But he knows asking won't get him anywhere. He says, "Hello, Natasha. Welcome to the Tank."

Simmons says, "Ha!" and shoves her palm at Fitz.

"Come on. Is that really what we're calling it?" Fitz asks, grabbing his wallet.

Phil shrugs. "It's pithy and it works."

"None of you have any imagination," Fitz says. He shuffles over to make room for Skye at their table.

Natasha tucks one side of her mouth up. "I hear your new recruit is settling in well."

Ward looks up at that. The boot print on his face has faded from purple-red to purple-green-yellow.

"Is he?" Phil asks, pleased. If Natasha's heard something, Wade must be settling in very well.

"I'd like to talk with you about his training," Natasha says.

 _Oh_ , Phil thinks.

Natasha doesn't so much as flick an eyelash in Skye's direction, but Phil knows her, has known her for years. He says, "Yes, of course," he says. "If you'll follow me?"

"Sir," Ward says, standing up. "I've been sparring with Probationary Agent Wilson. I might have some input."

Phil says, "I'm sure there's no might about it." Ward is too buttoned-up to preen, but he does puff out his chest a little. "But I need you on this project for right now. I'll talk to you about whatever impressions you've gathered later."

Natasha leads him down the hall to a windowless interrogation room. She shuts the door and pulls a tiny device out of her pocket, flicking it on. The device lights up red, then purple, then green, and Natasha nods. "This room is a black box for the duration of our conversation. Nothing we say here can be heard by anyone outside these walls or recorded by any device that exists."

Phil raises his eyebrows. "Stark tech? It's impressive."

Natasha smiles. "Not for sale, but for friends. For you."

"For me?" Phil asks, baffled.

"I may have encouraged his line of thinking," she allows, "But he was already looking for an offering. You are important to him. Especially after the mission in Zagreb."

Even after the events of the past week, Phil can hardly wrap his mind around it. "That's -- I have no idea. I'm grateful?" Only Tony Stark could invent an anti-espionage device as an offer of friendship. Maybe he should try visiting Stark Tower again.

Natasha's smile fades. She says, "You should be ready. For yourself, for Skye. Technology like this might be necessary for your survival very soon."

"Why?" Phil asks. "What's happening."

"I don't know," she says. "Something bad. I've been searching and searching and all I find are ghosts."

"What can we do?"

"Be careful. Pay attention. Don't let Skye leave the city. Put a protection detail on her, if you can. Maybe Probationary Agent Wilson, if you can get him a partner."

Phil squints at her. That can't be right. "The recruits are calling him Probationary Agent Face-Kicker. And he's currently lacking the use of both his arms."

"So he's crazy enough to do it," Natasha says, unruffled. "And you know how good he is, even without the use of his arms."

Phil's own fight with Wilson is a blur, but he's seen the videos of Ward and Wilson sparring. The man is impressive. Phil will have to start thinking about what to tell the Director, to get Wilson for the job. The thought of talking to Fury makes him ache, but it's manageable.

"Natasha, thank you," he says. "This information is incredibly valuable, but," he hesitates, and then pushes on, "why are you doing this?"

She looks away for a second, and then back. "There were people I couldn't help. Before. And now there are people I can help."

Phil says, "I understand that." There are people he can help now, too. He would do anything for them, beyond even the limits of reason. Natasha is one of those people.

She nods. "I'll contact you when I have something new to report. Keep that device on you at all times." She turns to leave.

Phil says, "Wait. Natasha. If you ever --"

"I know. I'll find you if I want to," she smiles in polite confusion, "talk."

She's given him the same smile after nearly every mission they've worked together. But Phil is nothing if not an optimist. "It can be good for the soul," he offers.

"Confession?" she asks.

"Friendship," he says. "Support. Understanding."

She considers him, and then nods. "I'll think about it. And Phil? Thank you, for whatever you said to Clint." And then she is gone.

Phil walks back to the Tank with the new device burning a hole in his pocket. When he arrives, Fitz and Ward are having an argument about the Michigan Militia. Skye and Simmons are eating popcorn and paging through digital rap sheets. Most of them are in Cyrillic, with a little translation window accompanying each. May is rearranging sub-folders of information in their giant central information bank, which is displayed on the giant touch-screen at the back.

Phil goes over to help May organize their files. She has her meeting with Director Fury soon, and he wants to help her prepare as much as possible.

She looks at him sideways. "Everything all right?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. "Everything is just fine."

\-----

Near the end of the work day, he gets a text from Kate. It reads, "Lunch tomorrow? Diagrams?"

He smiles, and types back, "Of course. I'll bring paper and pens, you bring questions."

He gets back the message, "So many questions!" It makes him laugh. They're going to be just fine, he thinks. He thinks this is the start of something good.

He looks up from his phone to find his whole team staring at him. Simmons is making the same _awww_ face she makes at pictures of cancer cells and slow loris videos online. Skye looks like someone just gave her a present. Fitz looks confused, and Ward looks like someone dumped an unexploded claymore in his lap. May is smiling at him with too much smugness.

"What is that smile, AC?" Skye asks. "Do you have a date or something?"

Huh. Phil hadn't thought of it that way, but, "I guess I do," he says.

Simmons clasps her hands together. "How lovely," she says.

"Congratulations," Fitz says. He stills looks confused, as if it hadn't occurred to him that Phil might have a sex drive.

Skye comes over and elbows him lightly in the side. "Who's the lucky lady, huh?"

"Please don't do that," Phil tells her. She cradles her elbow and looks sheepish.

"Come on, everyone," May says. "We still have work to do."

Phil gives her a _thank you_ nod, and she nods back.

"Why don't you introduce us?" Simmons asks. "We'd love to meet her."

"No, don't ever do that," Fitz says.

Simmons slaps his shoulder. "Why not?"

"Well, he wants to keep dating her, doesn't he?" Fitz asks. "We are _the_ anti-relationship material. I mean, look at us."

"Speak for yourself," May says.

Fitz and Simmons start talking over each other, with May, Skye and Ward adding peanut gallery commentary. Phil tunes them out. He turns and starts tidying the files on his tablet, getting them ready for May to present to Fury tomorrow. There's a lot of work to be done, but they've made an excellent start.

He hears a faint knock at the door of the office. When he looks up Clint is there, wearing full tactical gear and carrying a bow. Phil can't stop his smile, nor does he want to. He walks over and stands in front of Clint in the doorway, just a shade too close to be professional. "Fancy meeting you here," he says, careful to keep his voice quiet. His team doesn't seem to have noticed Clint, and he'd like to keep it that way.

Clint shrugs. "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by."

"Practicing with Natasha?" Phil asks.

"Among other things," Clint says. He tilts his head, and Phil notices a thin silver chain around his neck that wasn't there this morning. The chain holds a tiny, almost unnoticeable silver spider charm, something Clint could easily hide under his uniform shirt. Phil has to fist his hands at his sides to keep from touching. He has a very good feeling about that little charm. "What are they talking about?" Clint asks.

"They're wondering about the new woman in my life," Phil murmurs.

Clint grins. "Yeah? What did you tell them?"

"Nothing, which is why they think it's a woman."

Clint says, "You know, I wouldn't mind. If you wanted to tell them." His face does something complicated.

"I do," Phil says. "Maybe when they've earned it. Like a reward for good behavior."

Clint raises his eyebrows. "I'm the reward?"

Behind them, Fitz says, "Oh, like you've ever managed to get to a third date after they meet me."

Simmons says, "You're not a _punishment_ , you're a _litmus test_."

Ward asks, "You two want to keep it down?"

May says, "Don't stop them. This is great."

Phil says, "One they hardly deserve. But, yes."

Clint smiles at him, and they spend a few moments mooning at each other before Clint says, "Oh, I almost forgot," and scrambles in the pouch of his uniform belt. He comes up with a tiny keyring with two keys on it, and hands it to Phil. Phil stares at it. "For, I mean, if you want it. I just figured, it would be easier if you had a way to get in and out on your own."

Phil looks up from the keyring, staring at Clint's battered, honest, beautiful face. He has no words.

Clint starts to look worried. "I mean, you've been staying with me, but maybe I shouldn't assume that, well. You don't have to, if you --"

Phil kisses him. He pulls away from Clint's mouth and says, "Yes. Definitely," and then leans in and kisses him again.

Behind him, Skye says, "Holy shit," and he and Clint jump apart. He turns to find his whole team staring at him. Even May looks surprised.

Clint murmurs, "Well, there goes your plan to reward them."

"Hush," Phil says. He attempts to straighten his suit.

Clint says, "Hi, everybody. Good to see you all again."

Skye, Simmons and Fitz all wave. "Hi, Agent Barton," Skye says. "Nice, um, bruises."

They watch each other for a minute, and then Phil says, "To hell with it. Anybody want pizza?"

Clint tilts his head. "I could go for pizza," he says.

May says, "I'll get beer." She slips past them, giving Phil a discreet pat on the shoulder as she goes.

Ward, Skye, Fitz and Simmons look frightened at the prospect of sitting down to a pizza dinner with Phil and his boyfriend. "You don't have to stay," Phil says.

"No, no, we want to," Skye says.

"I love pizza," Fitz says, and makes a face at himself.

"Dinner would be wonderful," Simmons says.

"It's just that you're terrifying," Ward says. Then he looks like he's going to swallow his tongue.

Skye turns to him and says, "What is wrong with you?"

"Well, he is!" Ward says.

"You hang out with Probationary Agent Face-Kicker," Skye says. "Also, that's such a rude thing to say. Now he thinks we don't approve of him."

"We're anti-relationship material, I'm telling you," Fitz says.

Simmons says, "I wish you would stop saying that."

"Probationary Agent _Wilson_ and I have come to an understanding," Ward says.

"Yeah, about how you're both crazyface," Skye says.

Clint starts laughing. They all turn to look at him, and he waves a hand. "No, please," he says, between gasps for breath. "Please continue." He smooshes his face against the back of Phil's shoulder, muffling his giggles there.

Phil watches his team, and feels Clint's laughter, and he can't help smiling. "Come meet my people," he tells Clint, turning so they're tucked into each other, making a small private space just for the two of them.

"I've already met them," Clint says, face still pressed into Phil's chest.

"Yeah, but we're a thing now, and I want to show you off," Phil says.

"Oh, a _thing_ ," Clint says. He lifts his head off of Phil's jacket and smiles at him, beautiful and fierce and perfect. Then he says, "Okay, introduce me."

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> The song Clint sings is Raffi's [Bananaphone](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j5C6X9vOEkU). Fun fact: YouTube has a [ten-hour video of "Bananaphone"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpjGxq5uE3A) on a loop, with Samuel L Jackson's face as the background. All shall love him and despair.
> 
> [This](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m2Nn43QJA4) is a slow loris.


End file.
